


My Love, My Life, My Light (and Everything In-Between)

by RodimusPrime036



Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: M/M, Mentioned Cayde-6 (Destiny), Other Ships Not Mentioned in Tags, Solus Simping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:54:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28042755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RodimusPrime036/pseuds/RodimusPrime036
Summary: Marksman just loves his ghost so much it's silly, and Solus is always happy to be the subject of his guardian's affections.(Or; Marksman simply adores Solus, and Solus adores Marksman in turn.)((This will get more chapters!))
Relationships: Ghost/Guardian (Destiny)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 20





	1. Chapter 1

Marksman aches, despite his ghost's healing. It was the _good_ ache, the dull throb in his body that came from a busy day- busy with Crucible, with Lord Shaxx's loud calls in his helmet and the familiar kick from his favorite guns as he tore through the competition. It wasn't often he got to fight for fun, earning bright dust and training for the upcoming Trials as he enjoyed a day without strikes or emergency calls across the solar system. Perhaps an odd way to relax, battling with fellow Guardians, but Marksman enjoyed the bright burn of adrenaline, the rush of battle in a controlled environment. (He more-so liked to _win_ , liked the thrill of a successful hunt, the praise in his comms and the sharp taste of victory in his mouth, especially in a difficult match. Solus' eager encouragement certainly led to the Guardian's many victories.)

He blames the leftover rush of combat on his lack of sleep. His palms still heated from wielding his hammers, his chest still light and carefree, his shoulders still burning with the reminder of his shotgun's violent recoil, his fingers still stiff from handling his hand canon. It is good to hurt like this, the hurt of success and fun- and different than the ache of a dozen deaths in less than an hour, different than the pain of a knight's sword in his back or an explosive shank's shrapnel lodged in his hands. He rests in his bed, stretched out like a contented cat on his belly while Solus chattered happily over the highlights of the matches. He sounds _proud_ , watching his titan compete with the other Guardians, occasionally pulling up videos from VanNet and reading from the comments on the content. (And Marksman is pleased to hear the glee in his ghost's voice, proud to have been the cause of his little light's current happiness.) Eventually, the chatter dies down, until it is just Solus idly watching the exo, and the exo happily staring back. It continues that way for a long moment- Marksman, slowly blinking, and Solus, attempting to copy to gesture,- before Marksman speaks.

"Would you sing for me?"

Solus startles, shell opening slightly in a manner not unlike a flower at his Guardian's request. Marksman crossed his arms patiently, using them to pillow his cheek as he rests it on his forearm. "It's so pretty when you sing," the titan murmurs, offering a lopsided smile when the ghost gave an embarrassed little huff. "Helps me sleep better, too." Solus is quiet, seemingly in thought- and then he begins.

The music is odd; soft trills and gentle hums, lingering notes with chirps and whistles, long buzzes and soft churrs. Marksman had never heard anything so lovely. (It sounded like wind chimes in a summer breeze, like the stars glittering off the snow during the winter months, like the flowers blooming under spring and the leaves rustling in the fall. Like a music box beside a shore, calm and rhythmic, familiar even in its unheard tune.) Marksman loses himself to the melody, eyes dragging closed until he has to fight to stay awake. "You're _beautiful_ ," he says to the ghost, reaches out a hand and carefully drags Solus in closer, until he can gently butt their faces together. Solus does not reply, seeming too busy in providing more of those ethereal notes, but he nuzzles back against the Guardian in a fond motion of affection while the titan gave in to the song.

(And it was true; his ghost _was_ beautiful. As beautiful as the Dawning lights in the city, as the distant view of stars, as the sunsets on any planet, the most beautiful thing he had seen in all his travels across the solar system. He has never heard a prettier song.)


	2. Solus Spa Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solus enjoys some time with Marksman.

The melody Marksman hums out is unfamiliar, but Solus finds himself chirping along when he finds the rhythm. The Guardian's hands are warm, keeping the water a pleasant temperature as he dips a rag into the soapy basin and scrubs at the ghost's flippers, touch careful and firm while he cradled his shell with the hand not holding the towel. 

Solus was half submerged in the basin, coated mostly in soapy bubbles aside from his optic, which Marksman swiped dry whenever bubbles crowded his vision. They'd already refilled the tub twice, after it ran dark with dirt and ash. Now the titan was scrubbing all the scuffs he could out of his shell before they polished, humming happily to himself as he took care of the ghost. (Solus appreciated the attention; the gentle way his Guardian pet his shell, the soft adoration in his eyes, the way his faceplates softened into a loving expression of attentiveness as he focused on his task of cleaning his shell. Solus wished he had hands, to cradle the titan's face the same way he did to his shell, to trace the ridges of his plating and return the treatment he was receiving.) 

"My love, my world, my everything," Marksman's coo breaks him out of his longing, and he spins the back of his shell slowly. (It still splashes some water out of the basin.) "What are you thinking about?" The exo asks, tilts his head just slightly to the left.  _ One eye slants slightly, his cheek raising just so- yes, Solus recognized that warm little smile. The one only  _ **_he_ ** _ got to see.  _ Solus adored his voice, adored how  _ he _ was the one the exo spoke with the most, that  _ he _ got to enjoy the low baritone of his Guardian's purrs. "How lucky I am to have found you," he finally replies, and the titan huffs out a laugh. "Was I worth the wait?" His tone is fondly amused as he scrubbed the rag into the creases of his shell, eyes warm and pleased. " _ Yes." _ Solus puts as much emotion into the word as he can muster-  _ yes, yes, a thousand times over, he would have spent another million years searching just to be here where he was now, here with his Guardian in a basin full of water, admiring the way the lights glitter over his golden face- _

Marksman croons a sweet little note, leans down and rests his mouth over the ghost's freckle while purring out a deep, rumbling growl. "My soul," the Guardian speaks on a sigh, heavy and pleased. "My  _ purpose _ . I love you," when he draws back the lower half of his face is coated in fluffy bubbles, and Solus giggled when Marksman shook his head about like a grumpy cat to try and remove the soap. "I love you too," the ghost finally manages, once he can stifle his laughter, "my dearest darling." The Guardian gives a pleased little churr and blinks long and slow, eyes half closed. (This was  _ trust,  _ the open affection his Guardian practically oozed in the way he gave that lopsided little grin.) 

Marksman is terribly gentle when he lifts the ghost out of the basin. He grabs the plastic cup by the sink, carefully rinses the soap off of his shell before snagging the fluffy towel and bundling the little light into the fabric. They make their way out of the bathroom, Marksman cradling the ghost-burrito in the crook of an arm while he made his way through the apartment. (Strider had bought the place, nearby the tower, and Marksman had his own room. It felt more like the entire apartment was his, with how often the Awoken was with Cayde. Neither Marksman or Solus had an issue with that, though, as it meant they had more privacy.) The settle back in Marksman's area; a big, fluffy bed and walls covered in guns and the trophies of his battles, a case specific for Solus' shells on one wall and a stand for important armor pieces nearby. It was  _ home, _ even if they spent less time here in a week than they did on their ship. 

Marksman bounces when he collapses onto the bed, sighing happily as he fumbles over the nightstand for the yellow container and a new rag. (Solus had his suspicions that the Guardian had been planning to trap him in a pampering day, judging by how he had already had everything set up.) They are quiet again, as Marksman pats his shell dry of water before using the rag to spread the polish over his flippers in soft circular motions. His titan begins to hum again, low and deep and rumbly, a melody the ghost recognizes this time- the same melody as the one he had sung to his Guardian before, and he feels terribly weak when the exo attempts at copying the  _ sounds. _ His own are far deeper, vibrating in his chest and throat, fading into soft clicks and hums and churrs, and Solus compares his music to the crashing waves of Titan. A moment passes before he joins, guiding the Guardian through the melody when he faltered, taking the higher notes when his partner stayed low. (He can  _ tell  _ what his Guardian is doing. He can pick up the intention- the wordless " _ I love you,"  _ the soundless " _ I am yours,"  _ the unsaid " _ I need you." _ The ghost doesn't have a stomach, but he thinks he understands what people mean when they refer to butterflies.) 

They sing to one another until Solus' shell looks as though it'd hardly seen a battle, until Marksman hops into his pajamas-  _ pink sweatpants with a ghost print, Solus had picked them out for him-  _ and the little light is happy to snuggle close to the titan's chest when he curls up protectively around the ghost, sighing happily. (And Solus keeps singing until his Guardian is asleep, and he hopes that the exo understands  _ his _ intentions just as clear, because there would never be another person he wanted to spend forever with.)


	3. Touch, (and Solus' Adoration)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solus just wants to touch his husband and that's ok >:(

The rain is harsh. Wind howled around buildings, the water droplets colliding to the windows with enough force that it sounded like metal pellets on contact with the glass. Softer droplets hit the carpet, falling with gentle  _ patpatpat' _ s from Marksman's armor, falling faster when he shakes like a wet dog and pries his helmet off his head. It had been a difficult day to be out doing fieldwork; the thunder had rolled in unexpectedly, the rain falling soon after, until the mud sucked the titan's feet down and he struggled to walk, until he was disoriented by the biting rain and forceful winds, (and Taken did not suffer his ailments- they trudged along without exhaustion, fired without care for the rain, the thunder did not shake their hands and the wind did not sink into their very cores as it did to Marksman.) 

The exo's chestpiece hit the ground with a loud  _ thunk,  _ and Solus twisted his shell to watch him as he pried his at his mark until the soaked fabric hit the carpet beside the armor. (The squish from the thick material hitting the floor was audible, and Solus mentally noted that they would need to hang the cloth up over the tub later to dry.) For now, the ghost watched in the darkness as his Guardian pried his muddy greaves off and staggered towards their supply of candles. (Solus had started their collection back when they had first met, had shyly asked Marksman if they could have a few when they first arrived to the city. Since then, the exo had happily snagged him one or two on each trip near the shop where they'd gotten them the first time.) Marksman looked every bit like a wet cat; his clothes were soaked, the black material sticking to his frame and made even darker by the water. The candle flickered to life in his hands, glowing over his features, bouncing over the droplets gathered on his faceplates as he lit more, carefully placing them around the room. (The power had been out by the time they got home, and he recalled Marksman hissing curses as he trembled under his armor while glowering at the heater. His titan hated the cold, he knew.) 

He watched, intent and focused, as the exo peeled the soaked shirt over his head and tossed it to the growing pile of wet material. (He admired the way his arms rose up over his head, the way his stomach tensed and his back arched to lift the shirt, the way his natural heat left condensation on his glittering frame, the grey of mesh that softened the areas between his plating. He was beautiful.) "I hate being  _ wet, _ " Marksman's voice is rough and deep, a rusted sort of sound to it, like gravel. (And Solus feels electricity at the way he growls his words, gruff and tired and just a little cross, but never at Solus. Never cross with Solus.) "I know you do, beloved, so why don't you get warmed up and I'll set up some water for that cocoa Strider got you." He doesn't want to turn around, not really, because Marksman is bent at the waist and tugging at his wet pants, and Solus is  _ dying  _ to admire the rest of his plating, to watch him stretch and find his (pink) pajamas, to mark  _ every _ indent or design on his body to memory- Marksman gives a tired sound of appreciation, and he heads towards the kitchen without skipping a beat. (A good ghost, he reminds himself, did whatever needed to assist their Guardian. And, as Marksman was fond of saying, he was the  _ best _ ghost. He could put aside his desires to watch for at least two minutes.) 

He transmatted around the kitchen, humming thoughtfully as he scanned the cabinets for the sought-after cocoa powder. A gift from Strider at their wedding, once he had learned how much Marksman enjoyed the drink. (Especially with peppermint flavoring, Solus remembered, he loved it with peppermint.) It's not until he stares intently down at the stove does he remember their power situation, and a heavy sigh tears free from his shell. (Ah, he had missed a wonderful vision from his Guardian, just to find he couldn't even make the drink he had set off to create. Oh, how the Traveler punished him.) "Marksman?" He called, shell slumped slightly, a pout in his voice. "I'm afraid I won't be able to make anything without you." Marksman's voice echoes back from their room, (low and growly and  _ wonderfully perfect. _ ) "It's fine, love, we can figure it out later." (And Solus feels an eager burst of pride in his shell- because only  _ he _ got lovely nicknames,  _ he _ got more than four words from his Guardian,  _ he _ was the one his exo called ' _ love. _ ') He glides quickly back to their shared room, shell rising slightly in his eagerness to return to his Guardian. He follows the dim glow from the candle, jumping slightly when a clap of thunder shakes the building, and he hears a dull  _ thwud _ from the bedroom. "Marksman?" He chirped, entering the darkened room and peering through the shadows. 

His exo has collapsed onto the bed, shivering slightly, staring up at the ceiling and breathing on soft, even breaths. He stretches, then- throws his arms up, tilts his head back and plants his feet firmly on the covers, and his back arched _ up _ and his stomach tensed with the effort, (and he looked so strong and powerful while he was flexing, even indirectly, and his plating expands to hiss out hot air and to make him look bigger, and his hands curl into fists as a soft hum escapes him. And maybe Solus is staring with such wonderful admiration, because he had never seen anyone so beautiful, and he never wanted to see anything else, and he had never wanted to  _ touch  _ so much before.) " _ Marksman,"  _ he says, soft and breathy and delighted, and said Guardian collapses back against the covers and gives a curious hum. (And he looks over to him, eyes a molten gold, and blinks once, slow, slow, slowly blinks _ , _ a brilliant and silent  _ 'I love you,' _ and candlelight dances in a muted reflection off his plating, and  _ by the Traveler he was so beautiful. _ And he doesn't need to breathe, but he feels his breath catching.) "Can I- am I able to-" and he knows he doesn't really need to  _ ask, _ because they were  _ married, _ because he is Marksman's Ghost and Marksman is his Guardian, but he does not know how to properly confess how terribly he wanted to  _ touch _ the breathtaking sight before him. (And he wonders if it is normal to so desperately want  _ contact  _ with his Guardian, and he knows Neptune would laugh at him for wondering.) 

"Solus?" His titan's voice is a gentle prompt, as he watches him from the bed, and he realizes he had been staring, gazing longingly from his place in the doorway. His shell twists in embarrassment, but he does not look away, because he has no need to, (and Marksman gains a little smile, a subtle quirk to his faceplates, and he pats one golden hand on his stomach and speaks in an amused tone. "C'mere," he says, and Solus eagerly flit across the room to rest his shell on the softer plating of his midsection.) Marksman's hand cradled around him, and he nuzzled his optic eagerly into the offered palm and heaved a pleased sigh as the soft contact helped settle the terrible  _ need _ that had been rattling through his shell the entire evening. He already has every detail of his hands down to memory- like paw pads, the undersides of his fingers and palms had small sections of mesh that were textured so that he could grip things without slipping. The top of his hands were covered in those glittering golden plates, his fingers separated into three sections so they could bend, and there were lines and creases mapped out on the back of the plating that Solus had memorized the first time he had been able to see them. His hands, unlike his belly, were only nine degrees above the average solar Guardian. (His  _ stomach  _ was thirteen above- and Solus gave a pleased little hum as he snuggled closer against that extra heat.) He took a moment to appreciate his midsection in its entirety; multiple shades of brilliant gold, separated by thin lines of grey mesh, the metal warm and  _ flexible  _ in a way that never ceased to amaze the ghost. He was  _ soft- _ rounded slightly over his hips and chest, (which rose and fell with synthetic breaths, and Solus was delighted by the way the glimmering candlelight caught and danced on his plating,) and the ghost found himself wishing again for nothing more than to be able to  _ touch _ . "You're so pretty," he says, hushed and eager, and Marksman huffed a small laugh and  _ taptaptap _ ed his fingers on a flipper. "You flatter me," he's smiling as he speaks, and Solus feels fuzzy in a way that he can't describe. The rain picks up, harsh and thunderous on the walls- and he is warm and dry and  _ safe _ , and so terribly in love. "Can I touch?" He asks, voice thick with such open reverence that Marksman's eyes brighten to a lemon-yellow. "Touch?" He says, curious and interested, and Solus gives an eager trill and wiggles his shell. " _ Touch,"  _ he repeats, and Marksman's fingers stopped their  _ taptaptap _ ing as he tilted his head and gave a soft nod. "Whatever you want." (And he  _ trusted, _ and that was  _ permission,  _ and by the Light,  _ Solus _ was the one who got to get this from his Guardian.)

He rose off of the Guardian's stomach, shell expanding and rotating slowly. He can feel the exo watching him- (he delights in his undivided attention, in those brilliant yellow eyes staring attentively down at him, warm and pleased and adoring)- and he hums softly as he focuses. Light ebbs from his shell, pulsing softly in a dim circle around his center, casting a low blue glow that reflected softly off the exo. (And he was so pretty, and Solus' shell spins a little faster under the heat from his stare.) Solus' Light is different than Marksman's; unlike the burning fire from the solar titan, his is a gentle heat that glides carefully over his exo's midsection, bathing him in the blue glow, brighter than the candles but just as gentle on the eyes. (And Marksman is familiar with his ghost's Light, with the gentle heat that laps against his plating, at the warmth that sinks under his armor and relaxes his tense frame, like a wave that travels over both body and mind and  _ under _ and  _ in  _ and he is so terribly content under the sunshine heat, the same that healed him from injury and returned him from death.) Solus gives a pleased chirp at his titan's slanty-eyed expression; a grumbling purr rattled through his chest, eyes half-lidded and lazy with his head tilted back into the pillows and his hands folded comfortably over his chest. (And Solus is  _ pleased, _ because this was the closest he could come to having hands, to being able to hold, to being able to  _ touch  _ and  _ familiarize  _ and make his Guardian feel the safety he did whenever he held him in his hands.) The wind howls, shakes the windowpanes, the rain sounds like shotgun pellets making contact with armor, the candlelight flickers at an unseen breeze- and he is once again in awe of how  _ beautiful  _ the exo was, how his growling purr compared to the rumbling thunder, how the gentle candlelight reminded him of the titan's own wonderful fire, and he memorizes the softness of Marksman's midsection with his Light, and he is in  _ love. _ ) 

He doesn't know how long he stays there, shell rotating soft and lazy, watching the exo as he purred and occasionally pet at whatever part of his shell caught his attention. His blinks are long and slow, and Solus can feel how pleased he is, aware of his happiness as though it was his own, (and he enjoys his titan's extra warmth, his fire comfortable against his own, their Light meeting like old friends, lovers and partners, soft and lovely and bonded together, because they are equivalent to one entity in two bodies, and they are  _ wonderful,  _ and so frighteningly  _ beautiful.)  _ "Solus," Marksman's voice is tired, warm and rough and perfect, "my life, my love," and then he sighs, and it is barely audible over the furious wind and rain, and Solus perks to attention, eager to hear whatever words his partner will say, (because everything he says is worth memorizing, worth holding in his thoughts, and there is nothing else he wants to hear.) "I love you, my Light, my star, my soul and my purpose," (and Solus hides that recording away in his memory, because it makes him feel like liquid, shaky and delighted.  _ Traveler, _ he loved his Guardian.) He churrs, low and delighted, strengthens his Light and spins his shell and tries to copy his exo's blinking, sweet and slow, and he gives a chirping laugh when Marksman blinks back. "My beloved," he replies, warm and soft and agreeing, and Marksman heaves a pleased breath, and a wave of heat from his vents washes over the ghost. (And he is beautiful. And Solus is in love.) 

He does not keep track of time when he is with Marksman. It is unimportant; he does not care about hours, minutes, there is no need to count the time spent with his husband, because he is his forever, and he does not know how to count forever. But he knows it is long enough for Marksman to fall asleep, for his breathes to deepen, for his eyes to close and his purrs to quiet, and Solus waits longer still before closing his shell and going through the room to put ouy the candles, before finally resting by his shoulder, nuzzled close to his neck and sighing contentedly when Marksman gave a pleased little huff. And he is happy here, and together they are beautiful, and despite the howling wind and beating rain, he decides that he is never more at peace than when he is with his Guardian.

(And he is thankful, as he always will be, for the chance to  _ touch, _ the chance to  _ love  _ and  _ adore,  _ and the reminder that his Guardian loved  _ him _ just the same.) 


	4. Trials(and a Little Violence)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Did anyone else struggle during trials this last weekend? By the Light, I've never had that many people using Felwinter >:(

_ Punch, shoot, slide, repeat. _ A steady rhythm, embedded in the titan since the first day he was revived.  _ Punch,  _ **_slide,_ ** _ shoot, repeat. _ The warlock falls under the blast from his shotgun, a spray of pellets sending her sliding before her body disappeared and her ghost hovered above where she had been slain. He reloads with the ammo she dropped, throwing the larger gun over his shoulder and drawing his Crimson to take its place.  _ Shoot, slide, shoot, repeat.  _ The second, another titan, crumbled beneath his fire, sandwiched between himself and Strider nowhere to run. Their third teammate, Ari, gives a cry, and he is dimly aware of Saint's announcement she had been dropped.  _ Run, slide, shotgun, shoot, repeat. _ The third's ghost gives him a  _ look, _ and he shrugs good-naturedly as he revives his teammate. Saint's joyous cry fills the comms, and he marks his card. One win, six to go. 

A blast sends him backwards, hitting the wall harshly and causing him to grunt at the impact. Pain bubbles up, dim and distracting, (and he can feel Solus' worry, his terrible desire to rush to heal.  _ No, _ he reminds gently,  _ trials, not real battle.)  _ A whirl of motion, and the hunter tossed a grenade. He is contained in a tower of ice, and for a moment, he is reminded of Eramis, and he is  _ angry  _ that Stasis had been allowed here in the trials- he is not angry for long, because she slams into the crystals, and he  _ shatters. ( _ And it is a pain he has never known until other Guardian's wielded it. He wonders if they realize what they are doing.) Moments pass before Ari scrambles over, revives him from behind a wall, and he hunts down the enemy hunter. He doesn't look long; her confidence would be her downfall, and she rushed him with her shotgun drawn, and he is  _ faster. Slide under, jump over, shoot down, reload, repeat. _ She doesn't make it past his second shot, which takes out everything above her shoulders, and Solus would have cringed at the momentary sight before she disappeared, (and he at least feels a little justice over her uses of Stasis.) Ari takes out the second- he hears her gunshots, hears Saint's enthusiastic cheering that only one remained, and he turns to find the last. He doesn't get the chance, however- a fist connected with his helmet and staggered him into the wall, making him growl and shake his head to clear his blurred vision. Bastion clicks to life- he curses those who brought weapons like  _ that  _ to trials- and the bullets collide with his forehead. He doesn't know they won the match until he is brought back at the beginning of the next. (His head aches from the reminder of the shots, Solus' silent worrying echoing in the back of his mind. He nods, softly, and adjusts his grip on his handcanon before tearing behind Strider. He would not disappoint his ghost.) 

The next two matches blur together;  _ punch, shoot, slide, repeat, reload. _ He gets a leg torn to pieces from a Felwinter and tears down the enemy warlock with his Crimson in retaliation, (and Solus' side of the bond is alive with  _ look out, stay safe, I can't revive you until the end,  _ **_be careful_ ** . And he does not let it distract him, because this was trials, and he was not at risk of truly dying- but he understands that Solus didn't enjoy watching  _ any  _ of his deaths. He tries to watch corners better.) A sniper clipped his shoulder, and Marksman spat through his teeth as he ducked behind the cover that Capture Point B provided. There were no points here, but the Crucible map was used during the trials weekends. (Of every trials map, he despised this one the most.) It takes an extended period of time for Solus' Light to seep into the wound, to seal the torn wires and plating, to soothe the pain and prompt him back into motion. Strider was down, Ari was under fire-  _ fire.  _ Heat lapped at his hands, stronger than Solus' remaining warmth, and he snarled as he scrambled across the hallways. He would make his ghost  _ proud.  _ The heat burned, licking at his hands, roaring in his chest as it clawed at his plating, searching for a way  _ out,  _ and it was  _ wonderful.  _ The burn lapped over his arms, weaving like flames until they gathered between his fingers, and the hammers he holds are not  _ physical,  _ but they  _ exist,  _ and they certainly  _ seem  _ physical when they collide with the enemies and turn them to ash.  _ Jump, throw, charge, repeat.  _ And he can feel Solus' eager excitement, the non-verbal cries of encouragement,  _ you did it, you were wonderful, I'm so proud,  _ and he preens under the silent praise. (And Ari seems to be receiving the same type of approval, because she tilts her head and brightens her slumped shoulders, and he knows she is smiling under her helmet.) Four wins, three to go. 

They take a break here, and Marksman's aching body sings with approval as he sank into his chair. The cosmos looked beautiful here on his ship, the stars brilliant and sparkling- ( _ two hundred thousand three hundred thirty six,)  _ and Solus' voice draws him out of his exhausted thoughts. "You seem thoughtful." The ghost chirps, shell spinning once. "I'm counting," he replies softly, reaches out and cradles his partner in his palm. Solus settled eagerly into his hands, allowing himself to be brought close and held to the exos chest. 

"Counting what?"

"Two hundred thousand, three hundred and forty one," he hums patiently, "and I've yet to find a single star that compares to  _ you."  _ (And Solus gives a squeaky sort of embarrassed sound, hiding against his plating, and Marksman laughs as he reclines in his seat.) They rest in silence for a few minutes; until Marksman's eyes are weighed down with exhaustion as he kicked his feet up onto the dash, until Solus is settled happily into the crook of his elbow, which curled up over his stomach to hold him close, and then the ghost speaks in a gentle little voice. "You're doing so wonderful," he says, (and Marksman's chest feels warm and fuzzy, because he recognizes the praise.) "Even if I- if I hate watching you get hurt, or die- I love watching you fight. You're so  _ pretty… _ " and his voice trails off, a background hum of sound, as Marksman lets the trials-induced exhaustion drag him under the dark waves of sleep.  _ A small nap,  _ he reasoned with himself, his fingers on his freed arm rising to rest over Solus' shell.  _ A small nap, _ he decided _ , and they would see the lighthouse.  _

__ They nap- or,  _ he  _ naps- until he recognizes Solus'  _ pouting  _ voice. He groaned when he stretched, when his plating rattled and everything  _ ached _ , and Solus' voice fell into clicks and whirs as he opened his eyes. "Beloved!" He chirped, butting happily into his face, and Marksman mimicked the sound of a kiss when he tilted back into the affection. "Ari says you three are being called to trials again, despite  _ me  _ saying you should be able to rest until tomorrow." His pout-voice is back, grumpy and sulking, and he pat at his shell. "I think, as your ghost, that they should  _ listen to me  _ when I say you need a break." Marksman doesn't point out he had been resting for… three hours. Solus' concern was touching, and for anything else, he would have agreed. (Trials, however, waited for nothing, and he was eager for the battle, for being the  _ best,  _ for making his ghost and Saint  _ proud. _ ) 

After encouragement from Solus, the fifth match started. Two titans and a warlock, who had taken to prowling the map for Marksman whenever the matches began. His coincidence tended to be his downfall- the warlock constantly fell by his hand, weaker and overly bold. The  _ titans _ , on the other hand, were harsh and unyielding. A well-timed shoulder charge crunches everything in his chest, and he chokes on whatever fluid made up his 'blood' before disappearing. (He does not remember what dying  _ is.  _ It is like sleeping- there is nothing, but it is a  _ different  _ nothing, because there is no time. He is there, he is gone, he is back again at the next match. They lost that one,  _ live, die, live, repeat.  _ He tried to soothe Solus' unease at his constant dying, soft, silent assurance that he was fine. He shakes the chill of death off his body and tries again.) The match is close- four to four at match point, and he tunes out Solus, ignores Saint, squares his shoulders and hauls back into combat. Light throbs under his palms, white hot and brilliant, and he is  _ ready.  _

__

Six out of seven. 

The final battle is quick; two teams of near-flawless, rough and harsh as they clash together. The bang of a Felwinter and the sharp crack of an Adored, he dies twice by hand of Stasis shatters, once by the flames of Dawnblade, and once more by the momentary usage of Bastion. (And, as guilty as it makes him feel, he blocks out Solus as much as he can. His worry was endearing, but now- an unwelcomed distraction while he tried to focus on combat.) The other Guardian's are little more than enemies now, faceless and grey,  _ stasis, stasis, arc- _

__ "That Bastion is gonna tear us apart." Ari sounds cross. They've lost two matches, tied. 

"Then  _ melt  _ them," he shoots back, voice a growl, dark and dangerous. "Turn 'em to  _ ash _ ." (And she gives a tense nod, adjusts her grip on her gun, and they push in.)

Solus is  _ pleased.  _ Pride ripples through their bond, lapping at his thoughts like a gentle wave, warm and inviting. Marksman is exhausted again; his arm aches from the kickback of his shotgun, and he had hit the wall hard with a shoulder charge that still cast pangs of hurt down his arm- but Solus is  _ proud.  _ (And the lighthouse has a warm, artificial sun that is dim in comparison to Saint and Solus' pride. And Neptune is eagerly curling into Ari's hood and whispering fond praise, and Solus is beaming like a brilliant star.) "My beloved," he sounds happy, bright and brilliant. "You did  _ wonderful."  _ (And he bumps his optic against the front of his helmet like a kiss, mimics the sound Marksman had made earlier, and delightedly spins his shell when Marksman huffs on a shy little laugh. It was rare to see  _ softer _ things like embarrassment on his exo, and he delighted in any opportunities.) 

Flawless was an exhausting honor, one Marksman carried with pride. Carried… until they reached their apartment, where his shoulders dropped and he heaved a long, exhausted groan while running a hand down his face. The bed had never looked more inviting, and his ghost cozied directly in its center.  _ Ah, well, _ he could work with that; he buckled over the bed, collapsing heavily over the ghost. (Careful, careful, he leaves a small pocket of space between fully covering the ghost and squashing him into the matress.) "Marksman-" Solus sounds startled, voice muffled but amused. "Shhhh," he falls to his side, curling around the ghost like a cat with a ball of yarn. His arm throbs, and Solus seems to note his discomfort, because his shell glows a soft blue and the ache fades beneath the gentle heat. "You did amazing." The ghost whispers, clearing taking his hushing into account, "truly wonderful." He is honest, tender and warm as he wiggled his shell slightly to get comfortable, and Marksman gave a growly purr as he stretched further over the bed. " _ Solus _ ," he says, (and there is no added words, yet Solus' shell vibrates in his own little churr, and Marksman gave another audible  _ mwah  _ as he curled to bump his face to Solus' freckle. Solus eagerly repeated the sound, moving closer to darken his optic and lean into the affection.  _ This.  _ This was better than winning the trials.) 

It doesn't take long before he crashes again, and he doesn't notice when Solus moves to turn out the lights, when he uses his shell to toss a small blanket over his frame, when he nuzzles back into his arms and hides against his chest. (And he doesn't notice Solus' adoring stare tracing his features, and the pride in his gaze as he admires him.) 


	5. Agastopia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Agastopia (agg-uh-stow-pee-ah):   
> Admiration of a particular part of someone's body. The visual enjoyment of the appearance of a specific physical aspect of another.  
> (Or, Solus Simping, and a bond)

It would be a lie to say Solus wasn't a little disappointed _.  _ He had proposed bonding earlier- four days ago exact, though Marksman's work as a Guardian kept them far too busy for a night like that. He was expecting much the same today. Neptune had dragged him off to assist Ikora with information on other planets while Marksman and Ari trained, with Shaxx barking at them to work hard in trials the next day. So, here he was; only half listening as Neptune prattled about news on the moon, Ikora making notes to report to Zavala, thinking terribly about how much he already missed his titan. "And- Solus," Neptune gives a low, playfully cross whistle, and he realizes Ikora is looking at him. "Oh, I'm sorry, did I miss something?" He shakes his shell to try and shake off his lingering melancholy, and Ikora's lips tilt into a tiny smile. "No, you just seem distracted," she replies patiently, and he heaves a heavy sigh. "It's that obvious?" He murmured, and Neptune huffed a laugh. "You've been staring at the same spot on the wall for nearly ten minutes." The blue ghost pointed out, and Solus shrunk into his shell. "Sorry…" he mumbled, and Ikora's soothing voice interrupted whatever Neptune may have been about to say. "What takes up your mind?" She prods gently, and Solus hesitates. "I just haven't been able to spend much downtime with my Guardian lately," he finally decides on saying, (and Neptune gives him a  _ look _ that he glares back at.  _ Don't,  _ he says wordlessly, thankful when Neptune doesn't openly tease him.) Ikora nods slowly, jotting something else into her notes, before gesturing for Neptune to continue.

Solus hopes his Guardian is having more fun than he is.

  
  
  
  
  


Solus knows something is suspicious when Neptune escorts him to their apartment and not to wherever Ari was. "You're welcome to come in-" he tries to offer, and Neptune's shell gives a furious spin as he weaved backwards. "No, I'm sure you want some time with your Guardian," Neptune deflected, and he sounds…  _ off.  _ "Besides, Ari and I have been planning a date night." The other ghost disappears in a sparkle of blue, and Solus blinked owlishly at his evading friend before transmatting curiously into their apartment. "Marksman!" He calls, confusion evident in his tone. "Is something wrong with Ar- ...i?" He startled slightly as he looked around; it was dark, but he knows Marksman is here already. No lights are on aside from a dim, wavering line under their door, and there are no sounds aside from a distant shuffling and quiet humming. He is…  _ hesitant,  _ as he makes his way through their little home and uses his shell to nudge the door open. "Marksman?" 

He must have startled his Guardian- he jumps, yelping and twisting to face the Guardian with his plating fluffed and his eyes slanted. His grip on the pillow is nearly enough to tear it in his clenched fists, and-  _ the pillow.  _ Their bed is made in a way that startled Solus; a careful ring of blanket around the edge, the center padded and thick with extra blankets. There's a steeper pile of pillows than usual, (the pile uncompleted without the one currently being clutched to Marksman's chest,) and the bed is surrounded by soft candles, while gentle incense smoke made the entire room feel nearly otherworldly. He watches with warm fondness as his exo sheepishly sets the pillow back down and shyly smoothes the wrinkles in the case, looking back at him with a guilty expression. "You're early," he mumbles, (and he was  _ shy,  _ shrunk down on himself, shuffling nervously and avoiding eye contact. Solus' worry bleeds out, however, when he gestured vaguely to the bed and continued speaking.) "Nest," he informs, then looks away again. "Nest. For…  _ bond?"  _ He waves his hands wildly a moment, anxiety seeping into his tone. "If you still want-  _ bond,  _ I made a nest- fuck, I just said that, uhm," he looks lost, soft and nervous, (and Solus is reminded yet again how much he absolutely  _ adored  _ his titan, enough so that he doesn't s scold him for his anxious cursing.) "Nest, for bond, here, if you want, tonight? Nest." (Solus gets the impression that the 'nest' is important, so he flits over and rests happily atop the pile of pillows.)

"Nest." He repeats, tone warm and fond. 

"Nest." Marksman echoes, (and he notes the way his Guardian sighs in relief.) Marksman settles cautiously into the ring of pillows, resting on his belly and staring up at Solus with big, affectionate eyes that blink slow, slow,  _ slowly,  _ pupils expanded so wide they nearly dim out the black around them. "You want to bond?" Solus chirps, his shell expended as he leaned forward to meet his exo's gaze. He nodded furiously, squirming forward to bump his face to his optic and rumbling happily. "Yes. In the nest." (Ah, he can't resist asking any longer.)

"Of course, and I love you and your nest-" 

" _ Our  _ nest." 

"Our-  _ our  _ nest?" Marksman nodded again, sharp and firm, still purring like a satisfied beast as he rested his chin on the pillows in front of Solus. "Our nest." He agrees. " _ Our  _ nest. No one else allowed. I made it for you, to be with me, because I love you. Safe space to bond." He seems proud, cheeks raised to slant his eyes, eyes warm and pleased, (and Solus  _ understands  _ suddenly. This was Marksman's approval to their bonding; providing his definition of a safe, protected area, cozy and padded and warm- and  _ theirs.  _ He realizes why Neptune had refused to even come in, because he doesn't doubt his exo would respond poorly to anyone else being near  _ their  _ spot.) " _ Oh,"  _ he whispers softly, trembling and soft. "Our nest." And Marksman gives a half-lidded grin and nods happily. 

Bonding was a curious process. Solus would be lying if he said he wasn't nervous- Marksman seemed to have put quite a lot of effort into setting the scene, had done nothing but croon sweet nonsense and purrs until Solus had felt confident enough to continue. "You can, uhm, get comfortable," he guides quietly. "Lay back, get cozy, I'll handle most of it." He'd be lying if he said he wasn't pleased when Marksman scampered back to his feet, kicking out of his daily attire- (snug, flexible pants and a tight black undershirt-) into his fluffy pink pajama bottoms before he hopped back into their bed- their  _ nest,  _ and collapsed onto his back with his arms stretched out to his sides and upper half propped on the pyramid of pillows. He was  _ pretty;  _ his plating was various shades of gold, darker on the underside his upper arm, with a darker strip under his chest, leading down to a thin yellow plate over his stomach, surrounded on both sides by soft grey mesh to allow flexibility. All plating atop that mesh were smaller pieces, protecting his sensitive inner workings and allowing him perfect mobility. His exposed throat was made up of darker greys, of tubes and mesh and metal, (and under his gaze, Marksman tilts his chin up higher as though _ offering,  _ and Solus knows it is a show of trust- he bared his throat, not that the ghost could hurt him if he tried, but to inform him that he had his full trust, that Marksman entrusted him with his safety, that he would make himself vulnerable for  _ him. He  _ got this Guardian,  _ he  _ was the one trusted so deeply,  _ he  _ got to watch him make a show of arching his back in a stretch as he purred and practically preened under the ghost's attention. This was  _ his.)  _

"Right," Solus collects himself shakily, watches as Marksman twists to give him his full attention, eyes dilated nearly forty percent above their usual size. He looks  _ eager _ , attentive and pleased. (Solus is more than happy to find himself on the receiving end of such an intense gaze.) "Right, uhm, can you… are you able to use your Light? Not for your hammers- just," he seems to frown, shell dipping from where he hovered above Marksman's chest. "Hm. Okay, you're going to feel… a  _ tugging.  _ I need you to relax, just… let it happen, okay? Just trust me." Marksman nods, soft and curious, reaching up and running the pad of his thumb over Solus' center while his palm curled around his shell. "My heart," he murmurs, (and his voice is gentle and thick and whispered and  _ awed,)  _ "I trust you with my life, my soul, my everything. If you asked me, I would walk into the fires of the sun, because I trust you to keep me safe." (No, Solus wasn't going to cry just because of how  _ honest  _ he was, but he would be damned if he wasn't a little choked up.) "Please don't walk on the sun," he replies quietly, and Marksman grins. "I won't, unless you ask me to." 

Marksman's Light is  _ beautiful.  _ Not half as stunning as the exo himself, but still a brilliant thing. He is hesitant as he focuses, calling to the Light and slowly rotating his shell as he focused. (Marksman's stare was almost as distracting as his breathing is- Solus nearly forgets what he's doing as he watches his chest rise and fall with artificial breaths, watches how the candles dance on his plating, how the mesh between his plating expands and falls back on each rise and fall.  _ Oh,  _ he wants to  _ touch,  _ he wants to  _ touch  _ and  _ feel each groove in his armor,  _ he wants to make Marksman  _ purr.  _ He wants to  _ feel  _ each rumble in his throat, in his chest, wants to pet his sides and squeeze at the softer parts of his mesh along his hips, wants to see his pupils go burning bright and feel his frame burn up from his Light.  _ Oh. He wanted to  _ **_touch.)_ ** "My pretty boy," he whispers softly, delights in the way Marksman heaves a rumbling purr and smushes his head back into the pillows. Little white flecks spin like snowfall, gentle and glowing, spinning around his shell and humming with life. (Like ash, he notes distantly, like his Guardian's remnant fire, gentle, swaying ash that sings when it makes contact with his shell, that  _ yearns  _ for him in a near frightening manner. He can  _ feel  _ it, such wonderful  _ longing,  _ a desperate sort of tugging that reaches into his own shell, demanding to let them meet on a  _ deeper  _ level.) 

"How are you feeling?" He sounds breathy and strained, even to himself, but Marksman's distant hum reminds him that he needs to be  _ careful.  _ Marksman had never used his Light for anything but battle; this was unfamiliar and new territory for him, and Solus would hate to frighten his titan off by pushing too hard. "Marksman, I need an actual response." Amusement leaks through his tone. "I need to know you aren't being pushed too hard. We can always work up to proper bonding, right? This can be overwhelming." Marksman's fuzzy, pleased look fades to a soft frown, and he raises a hand to gently pet at his shell. (His voice is rough and gravely,  _ focused. _ ) "'M okay," he assures. "Wanna bond. With  _ you.  _ Made us a nest for bonding." (Solus nearly giggles at mention of their nest again, leaning his shell into his titan's hand and sighing softly as more flecks of Light dance against his shell. Soft, safe, here in their nest, with Marksman's Light  _ longing _ for his own- and  _ oh,  _ his Guardian was so  _ beautiful.)  _ "It's a beautiful nest," he agrees, and Marksman's pretty chest puffs with pride. "Perfect for bonding, I'd say." He giggles at the way his titan flares up and grins, such obvious eagerness just from the gentle praise. (He wants to keep calling  _ him  _ perfect, because he gave such delightful purrs and rumbles when he complimented him.) 

It only takes a few moments before he recognizes the little rumbling as  _ words.  _ Gentle and feverish- " _ SolusSolusSolus,"  _ echoing and repeating, and he doubts Marksman even knows he's saying it with his terribly distracted he seems.  _ "Touch,"  _ his exo is suddenly looking at him, eyes bright and  _ longing. _ Solus is more than eager to comply; he guides his Light gently against his heated plating- curls like ribbon around his thighs, his hips, up over his sides and warm over his chest and shoulders, soft blue tendrils that settle like a blanket over his trembling frame and glide like a wave up over his throat. " _ Pretty boy,"  _ Solus breathes, (and his Guardian is absolutely stunning, his hands pawing at the sheets as he purred and slanted his head up more. He never looked better, not when he was surrounded in  _ Solus'  _ Light, when he was that wonderful mix of putty and tense, and he can  _ feel  _ the way his frame is softly trembling, the heat he usually poured out heated nine degrees higher than his average.  _ Careful,  _ he reminds himself firmly,  _ overheating the poor exo would be bad.)  _

It is a bit more effort to focus on contact  _ and  _ bonding, but Solus makes do, because it was  _ worth  _ the effort to be so completely aware of Marksman's heavy breaths, of the way his plating shifts and flexes with his efforts to sit still, (he's trying so wonderfully hard to not move too much, his fingers squeezing the sheets, his stomach tensed but his head lulled back in the pillows. He was  _ beautiful. _ ) "You're perfect," he manages to hum, and Marksman heaves a higher pitched, whining purr, (he's heating up more, from nine to fourteen.  _ Careful.)  _ Marksman's Light is  _ eager,  _ a push against his own, as firey as the titan himself, and Solus wishes he could  _ show  _ him what it looks like- he couldn't even describe it if he tried, the blinding brilliance, the beautiful,  _ wonderful  _ heat that lapped like a wave against his own. (Nearly overwhelming, the way the heat floods feverishly against his cooler Light,  _ another five degrees hotter than usual,  _ and then it  _ clicks.)  _

A 'click' isn't quite the right word, but it's the only one that manages to make it through the sudden  _ emotions.  _ It wasn't quite a click, really; it was a  _ mix,  _ it was softly folding together, it was the heat mellowing and being soothed by his own cool, it was comparable to… to  _ holding,  _ the way that their Light met, like old soulmates finding one another again, meeting together in a brilliant embrace of color and  _ light,  _ (and Solus is gone in that moment, because he cannot tell where  _ he  _ begins, because now there is just  _ them,  _ there is  _ Marksman,  _ and he is  _ beautiful.  _ He is  _ everything,  _ he is fire that laps at his shell, he is the gold Solus wants to see every morning, every night, he is  _ home,  _ he is safety and love and  _ everything.)  _

Solus is back after a moment. He is resting on Marksman's belly- the exo is as limp as the ramen noodles he loved so much, and while his center was cradled in a trembling hand, his shell seemed to have forgotten it was supposed to be around him, (as each separate piece rested scattered across the bed.) His Guardian is  _ hot,  _ his fingers trembling- no,  _ everything _ about the exo was shaking, from his breaths to his stomach. He is over twenty degrees too hot, his chest rising and falling rapidly in short, quick breaths and his fingers fumbling over his center to paw shakily around him. "Marksman," he sounds as wobbly as Marksman looks, and he  _ feels.  _ He feels his Guardian's startling fuzziness, and a deeper sort of satisfaction that makes even Solus feel blurry and pleased. "I need a response," he prompts softly, and Marksman heaves a strangled, whining rumble, (and his pupils have dilated over sixty percent their normal size and are an electric yellow in color, and they are blurred and distant as he gazed up to the ceiling and heaved trembling breaths.) "Words, please." He continued prodding, and Marksman groans audibly, taking a moment to click his eyes into a dimmer yellow before he slowly blinked.  _ "Good,"  _ he mumbles, (and Solus can feel his glowing adoration, can feel the gentle push and pull from- their  _ bond,  _ they had  _ bonded,  _ he can  _ feel  _ his Guardian's Light as solid as his own-) 

"Mmpretty." Marksman's growling voice is rougher than usual, (it is absolutely perfect,) and he is giving a Solus big, sleepy eyed grin. "Thank you," he replies, (then he wants to slap himself for saying  _ 'thank you.')  _ But then Marksman  _ giggles,  _ snorts and smushes his head harder into the pillows as he raised a hand to try and hide his grin, (and  _ oh,  _ he is so  _ beautiful,  _ with his eyes slanted as he snickered and his hands still trembling and his temperature slowly climbing back down, in  _ their  _ nest, as they solidified  _ their  _ bond. This Guardian was  _ his.)  _

They rest there silently together for a long time. Solus gradually draws his shell back in, until he can settle on Marksman's stomach without needing to be held up. (He's more than happy here instead of on his chest;  _ here,  _ he can watch his chest as he breathed, can see how he tilts his chin up and how his throat vibrated with his breathy purrs.) His Guardian's heat dies down slowly, creeping into safer levels while the room remained heated as his vents dumped the excess heat. Their nest is as cozy as it had looked in the beginning, warm and  _ safe,)  _ though not nearly as much so as Marksman,) and Solus gazes happily over his titan as he gradually climbed down from his fuzzy high. "How do you feel?" Solus chirps, and Marksman hums deeply as he thumbed over his flippers. "Good. Best I've been in a while." (And Solus' shell perks in an impression of a smile, optic brightening in delight.)  _ "Wonderful.  _ You're so beautiful." (And Marksman's Light presses eagerly into his own, firm and  _ yearning,  _ and he feverishly pressed back, delighting in the way Marksman's purrs rose in volume.) "My beloved," he sighs, shell sinking into a lax sort of position while his exo gently pet his flippers and crooned sweetly. 

"My Light-"

" _ Our  _ Light-"

"No, our **_nest,_** _my_ Light." He sounds firm, and Solus huffs out a laugh. He understands, of course- he was Marksman's as much as Marksman was _his,_ and this was _theirs._ "Fine, fine, _my_ beloved." And his exo nods firmly, seeming pleased as his eyes dimmed more to a deep, liquid gold, (and _oh,_ Solus could lose himself in those eyes, reflections of the same beautiful adoration that he can _feel_ from his Guardian.) He touches tentatively, gentle blue that smoothes softly over Marksman's chest and sides, and the titan heaved a pleased sigh, dropping his head back again and rumbling quietly. 

  
  


_ (And he was so pretty, and they were  _ **_bonded_ ** _ , and no one else would get his Guardian, or _ **_their_ ** _ nest.) _


End file.
